


There Was No Choice

by Malfi1230



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Makes Mistakes, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Makes Mistakes (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Rescue, Torture, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 06:14:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28844406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malfi1230/pseuds/Malfi1230
Summary: Crowley's temper gets the better with him, and Aziraphale makes a painful decision.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 27
Kudos: 117





	1. Chapter One

Five weeks since the nonstarter Apocalypse (Crowley had been running through a few nicknames, including “Armagedon’t,” “Armagadidn’t,” and “Apoca-what?”, but nothing seemed quite right), and Crowley had spent fewer than seven nights outside the company of Aziraphale.

Not that they slept together. They didn’t, except on the occasions they both dozed off on Aziraphale’s couch after drinking far too much. Even then, they didn’t touch. Or at least, they didn’t mean to touch. Once, Crowley had woken up with his head resting on Aziraphale’s chest, Aziraphale’s fingers buried in his hair, with a vague memory of someone stroking his fingers through Crowley’s now chin length mane as he had fallen asleep. That memory had not been quite enough to keep him resting on Aziraphale’s chest, and he had carefully extracted himself and slipped out of the bookshop just as his angel began to stir. The next time the two saw each other, both had pretended it had never happened. 

Most of the time, Aziraphale sent Crowley up to his rarely used bed in the flat above the bookshop. Aziraphale wasn’t much of a sleeper—he only ever slept by accident—and Crowley fancied the angel was satisfied to see that his investment in a quality mattress wasn’t going to waste. And the next morning, Crowley woke up to a mug of coffee on the bedside table, and he could come downstairs to Aziraphale shoving breakfast dishes in his face, urging him to eat. And then he got to wile the day away, frightening customers and making Aziraphale laugh. He loved it when Aziraphale laughed. It was the best sound in the world. 

Most of the time, he could deal with the fact that he wanted more. He could lie awake in Aziraphale’s bed, trying to urge his overwrought, desperate body to sleep despite the fact that he could hear his angel moving around downstairs. He could handle the reality that Aziraphale would never love him the way he loved Aziraphale. He could face the fact that Aziraphale’s loyalty had limits.

Every now and then, however, Crowley reached his limit. He wasn’t an angel, after all. He was a demon. And he had a temper. 

__________

“See, you just aren’t getting it, angel, are ya?” Crowley gesticulated wildly with his almost empty wine glass, and a splash of what was left flew over the couch. Aziraphale frowned pointedly, and Crowley waved his other hand to erase the stain. “You couldn’t know this up in Heaven, but it’s not like Hell was Hell for us! I mean, it was, it was Hell. But it was supposed to be bad only for the humans who ended up down there. For the rest of us, it was just… I don’t know. A place.” Aziraphale looked incredulous, and Crowley added quickly. “It was dark and smelly, obviously, but not all that bad!”

“My dear, you must remember, I was there for a bit!” Aziraphale pointed blearily at the floor, emphasizing each word with another vague gesture. “And not bad is not the description I’d employ. I found it to be quite unpleasant indeed. Rather menacing, in fact.” 

“Sure, for you!” Crowley laughed. “You were being executed! Or I was being executed… whatever, you get it. You know how freaky Heaven was?”

“Oh come now.”

“No, really! All white and sterile and overly lit!” Crowley screwed up his face in disgust. “Not like here. Here it's all warm and cozy.”

“Well, thank you, my dear.” 

“And Gabriel, fucking Gabriel.”

“Yes, he was never my favorite either. Though I had Michael with me downstairs, and she is quite unpleasant as well.”

“Face it, angel!” Despite his teasing, Crowley’s tone was jocular, and the word “angel,” as it always did, sounded like an endearment rather than a title or a label. “Heaven is bollucks.” 

“Crowley! Good lord. You can’t seriously claim that Heaven is less pleasant than Hell!”

For some reason, that struck Crowley the wrong way entirely. “You’ve never fully explained to me how they are so very different, Aziraphale.”

Had Aziraphale been sober, he might have picked up on the change in Crowley’s tone and made an attempt to appease him. As it was, he stuck to his conversational guns with drunken obstinacy. “It’s in the label, Crowley! Heaven vs. Hell! Paradise vs. torment! Angel vs. demon!” 

Had Crowley been sober, he might have picked up on the sarcastic edge to Aziraphale’s words. As it was, he flushed hot with anger. “I see. You think you’ve lost more than me, Angel?” This time, the word was intended as a title. “And no doubt gained less.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale’s voice sounded both chastising and repentant, but Crowley’s angry mind focused on the chastising part of the equation. 

“I guess I’m not much of a prize,” Crowley snarled. “Not much of a friend. I get it, Aziraphale. Fair enough. Appreciate the honesty.” 

“I never said that, Crowley, please, sit down!” But Crowley was already throwing on his coat, staggering on alcohol-laden legs. _You don't have to love me, but just once, could you trust me? Or better yet, maybe choose me?_

“Just listen to this, Angel,” Crowley said, winding his scarf around his throat. “Hell might not have been a vacation in the sun, but I could have belonged there. But I never did. Instead, I sided with you. I’ve picked you over Hell more than once. And saved your ass in the process. And you never once gave me one bit of that.” Crowley finished preparing himself for the cold outside and faced down the angel, who was looking at him, stricken.

Something that might have been the beginnings of guilt stirred inside him, but he refused to acknowledge it.

“Keep that in mind, when you put yourself above me.”

“Never, Crowley, I don't, I couldn’t, please wait…”

Crowley was already shouldering open the door and racing to the Bentley, clumsily sobering himself as he went. Just as he slammed the driver’s side door shut, he heard the bookshop door burst open and, out of the corner of his eye, saw Aziraphale race out into the street. But he was revving the engine and speeding away before Aziraphale could locate the car.

__________

Aziraphale called him multiple times a day for the next three days, and once a day for many days thereafter, but Crowley refused to answer either his landline or his mobile. Instead, he focused on his latest side project—the creation of his safehouse.

The image of somewhere safe and warm and _theirs_ had sprung to mind the day he and Aziraphale had returned from Heaven and Hell, respectively. They had dined at the Ritz and retired to the bookshop, jubilant but also emotionally exhausted. Neither had wanted to be alone. Neither had wanted to admit what they were feeling. They ended up sitting by the fire, sipping brandy more quickly than they should have and staring into the flames, with Aziraphale’s head on Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley had kissed Aziraphale once. Aziraphale had returned the kiss happily, or at least it has seemed so to Crowley. They hadn’t had the energy to pursue those feelings any further that night. And Crowley hadn’t had the courage to discuss it the next day. He'd thought he'd seen Aziraphale eyeing him searchingly over the oversized mugs of coffee, but he told himself it must have been his imagination. If Aziraphale loved him, he would have known by now. And Aziraphale must have felt the love coming off of Crowley in waves. Didn't that put the romantic ball in Aziraphale's court? 

Having some of Aziraphale was better than none at all. So Crowley had shoved that moment by the fire into the back of his mind, where it only troubled him in dreams and when drunk. 

All the same, Crowley had started to think musingly that the two of them needed a new place. The bookshop and his flat were known. They needed a safehouse. Somewhere safe, that neither Heaven nor Hell could find. A cottage sounded nice, in the South Downs. Aziraphale would like the country. _And you can see the stars down there…_

Crowley hadn’t used any demonic means to find and purchase the little cottage. He’d created a new identity and done everything by the book. He hadn’t wanted to leave a paper trail for either Heaven or Hell to follow. The cottage was waiting for them, on the outskirts of a small town near the Seven Sisters cliffs. Crowley had been looking forward to showing it to Aziraphale and getting his help warding it from unfriendly eyes. Now that he was no longer speaking to the angel, he would just have to form the wards himself. 

Spells to conceal any miracles that occurred inside the cottage. Spells to hide the cottage from anyone looking for him, through angelic, demonic, or even human means. Spells that would prevent anyone from entering without his permission. Including his angel. Since Crowley was doing all this himself, without help from his supposed best friend, he would make himself the master of it. 

(Crowley was aware of how little sense this made—how could he be angry at someone for failing to help with a project he had intentionally kept secret? But rationality wasn’t ever his strong suit, most especially when he was angry and hurt.)

The cottage took a month to fully shield; Crowley took a moment to move in (perhaps because the only items he felt the need to bring from his flat were his plants and his exquisite copy of the Mona Lisa). He snapped his fingers and suddenly, the living area was furnished tastefully, with a contemporary-looking sectional that was littered with velvet pillows and throw blankets (making it attractive and comfortable, unlike the living room in his Mayfair flat), a painting on the wall whose style might be modern but whose colors were warm, a mounted flatscreen TV (remove the threat of demons speaking to him from the screen, and he liked television), and a whole wall of bookshelves crammed with books that were absolutely _not_ Aziraphale’s favorites, damn it! The kitchen was filled with the most modern appliances, an enormous espresso machine, and a homey little tea pot. The small bedroom was mostly taken up with an enormous bed, piled high with Egyptian cotton sheets and alpaca wool blankets. 

The blanket on the end of the bed was tartan. _What the fuck?_

Crowley looked around his space and stormed to the new, suddenly stocked bar in the kitchen. He needed a damn drink.

Three drinks (or seven, but who’s counting?) later, Crowley admitted to himself and the first editions on the bookshelves that he may have overreacted a bit. Yes, Aziraphale had always clung to Heaven in a way that made Crowley go a bit mad, but he wasn’t wrong to fear Falling. Crowley could refer to it as “sauntering vaguely downward” all he wanted—Falling was rough. Falling hurt. And it tied you to the Devil. Made the Devil your deity. That was a whole new level of ugly. Aziraphale was right to want to avoid that.

And honestly, Crowley may have overstated things when he said that Aziraphale had never shown him loyalty over and above his loyalty to Heaven. True, he’d never directly told Gabriel to go shove something long and pointy up his tight, bleached posterior, but he had snuck around and bent the rules for Crowley on multiple occasions. Once the Arrangement was formed, Aziraphale had performed temptations just as Crowley had performed blessings, and he had more than once warned Crowley off a certain course of action when the demon had strayed too close to real danger. Aziraphale always worried about Crowley being in danger, actually.

_“But if Hell finds out, they won’t just be angry. They’ll destroy you!”_

_“I’m not giving you a suicide pill, Crowley.”_

 _“I can’t have you risking yourself.”_

He understood all of that. He appreciated the motives behind it. It was what was said at the bandstand that was digging its teeth into his psyche.

_“There is no ‘our side,’ Crowley! Not anymore. It’s over.”_

That had hurt. 

But was he being fair? Could he really blame someone for a kneejerk reaction on the eve of the Apocalypse? Wasn’t exactly the best moment for sound decision-making.

_Fuck that, I’m a demon. No one looks to me for fairness._ Crowley poured himself another drink.

Two (five?) drinks later, and Crowley was watching the ceiling of the cottage twirl and spin with interest, thinking increasingly disjointed thoughts about nebulas and Edinburgh and Holy Water, and how it was all so connected. He started saying some of this out loud, waiting to hear an appreciative hum and an exclamation of, “Do carry on, my dear,” when he paused for breath. Of course, there was nothing.

At this point, Crowley was starting to feel that he was cutting off his own nose to spite his face. 

It had been about two months since he’d seen Aziraphale (actually, it had been 64 days, not that Crowley was keeping track). Aziraphale had called Crowley at least once a day for 40 of them. The messages left on the first day had been verbose and deeply apologetic, as had the ones left on the second. The third day messages were tinged with asperity—a sentiment that increased as their time of separation lengthened. By day thirteen, Aziraphale had been fed up, but his irritation had eventually descended into despair. The messages became shorter and sadder. The last message had been comprised of only five words. 

“Please, Crowley. Call me. Please.”

Crowley hadn’t heard from the angel since.

Crowley woke the next morning on the floor of the cottage, having failed to sober up the night before. His eyes were sticky, his stomach unsettled, and for Satan’s sake his head… But he’d made up his mind. Whatever point he thought he’d been making was certainly made by now. Aziraphale was (he could admit it, if only to himself and only when insanely hungover and still a bit drunk) the love of Crowley’s life, and what’s more, he was his best friend. He couldn’t just walk away from his best friend. 

He shook off his hangover with a snap of his fingers. Within a quarter of an hour, he was in the Bentley, hurtling back towards London. 

__________

Something was very, very wrong.

The sign on the door of the bookshop clearly said “Open,” but the shelves were coated with dust, and the light bulbs in the lamps had all burnt out. Obviously, no one had been there for days. Even more frightening was the abandoned cup of cocoa sitting by Aziraphale’s armchair, tepid beneath the sticky skin that had formed on its surface. Aziraphale’s waistcoat was hung neatly on the coatrack by the door—since when did the angel go anywhere without his waistcoat? Wherever Aziraphale had gone, he had done it without preparation or thought.

The owners of the shops nearby had nothing helpful to say, even when snapped into a dreamlike state of complete honesty. Though plenty of people in the neighborhood knew of the delightful (if demanding) proprietor of A.Z. Fell’s, no one had seen or heard from him in almost a month, and no one had any clue where he might have been. Aziraphale had simply disappeared into the aether.

Crowley was walking down the streets of Soho, wondering whether to be angry at his angel or desperately worried for him, when he heard the sounds of children screaming. His head snapped to attention, and he looked down an alley to see a group of boys who had only a moment ago been kicking a ball back and forth amiably now shouting at each other in anger, crying “It’s my turn!” and “Back off!” with the sort of passion children’s games truly didn’t require. Behind them, in the shadows, Crowley thought he saw a familiar face. 

Crowley stormed down the alley without thought, snatching the ball up and holding it above the boy’s heads. “You want it that bad?” he asked. The boys looked at him with their mouths open, their eyes clouded and confused. In the shadow, Crowley could now clearly see Hastur’s clammy face cocked to one side. “Do either of you think it’s worth losing your mate over? How you going to kick a ball when there is no one to kick it back?”

The boys looked vaguely guilty. 

Crowley tossed the ball back to the boys, waving away the last traces of wrath and envy from the air. “Go on boys, fast,” he said under his breath, then turned away from Hastur as they scampered away. “Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?” He started back up the alleyway, disgusted, calling over his shoulder, “Pathetic excuse for a temptation, Hastur!”

“Crowley, you still at large?”

Crowley stopped and looked back at Hastur. “What the Heaven is that supposed to mean?”

Hastur opened his mouth to answer, then stopped, stymied. “Well… I mean… I thought you’d have been taken by now.”

Crowley eyes narrowed in automatic suspicion. “Taken. By. Whom?” 

“Well, the angels, of course.” 

Crowley’s mouth dropped open without his volition. “The blessed angels?”

Hastur shrugged. “I guess your little angel hasn’t broken yet. A bit surprised, if I’m honest. Tougher than I gave the wanker credit for.”

In one fluid if vicious motion, Crowley slammed Hastur against the wall of the alley. “You need to tell me what the fuck you’re on about right now.”

Hastur didn’t seem particularly perturbed. He was a duke of Hell, after all, while Crowley was a simple demon. All the same, Hastur answered quickly enough. “Take it easy, _Crawly._ Heard from the source of a source that the Heavenly Host was after you, particularly.”

“Why? I’m under Hell’s jurisdiction,” Crowley asked.

“Oh, Heaven cleared this with Beelzebub. Apparently, the thinking changed—after the stunt you pulled, the aim is towards damage control, and you’ve always been a wildcard.” Crowley felt a bit of pride at that description, and Hastur, obviously seeing something of that betrayed in Crowley's face, sneered. “Couldn’t find you though. You’ve been lying low. So they went after that angel friend of yours. The one with the stupid name.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley supplied woodenly. 

“Yeah, him. They were thinking that if they could keep tabs on him, he wasn’t likely to cause any more problems. So they went to him and offered him clemency and a place back Upstairs, in exchange for your location. Oddly enough, he wasn’t interested.”

Crowley felt another bit of pride, this time in his wildcard angel. Heaven always misjudged him.

“So they took him. Took ten angels apparently to do it. He put up a good fight. But they brought him down eventually, and then took him up there and got to work on him. That’s been a couple weeks ago now, at least. I assumed they’d have gotten him to talk by now. Guess not though.” Hastur cocked an eyebrow at Crowley and pushed him back with a rough shove. “Good enough?”

Crowley let Hastur push him back passively. He felt cold. _Went after that angel… they took him… got to work on him…_ “Is he alive?” he asked through numb lips. 

“How should I know? Why should I care?” Hastur shrugged. “I haven’t heard anything about him dying. But I haven’t been listening.” Hastur stalked down the alley. “Want my advice, Crawly? You run and run hard. If anyone comes for me, I’m not keeping my mouth shut when the thumbscrews come out. Not for your sake.”

Crowley’s legs gave way beneath him, and he slumped to the side of the alley. Heaven had Aziraphale. Heaven wanted Aziraphale to tell them where Crowley was. But Aziraphale didn’t know about the cottage. So if he’d told them where Crowley’s flat was, and the angels had shown up to find it abandoned…

They would have assumed Aziraphale was lying to them. And Heaven wasn’t forgiving of liars.

_Satan… God… Someone. What did I do?_


	2. Chapter Two

Rescue missions into hostile territory are not to be undertaken lightly, and Heaven was the ultimate hostile territory for a demon. Crowley was planning on storming Heaven to escape with a no doubt high value prisoner. Preparation would be everything. Of course, logically, Crowley knew that no amount of preparation would likely ever be enough, and luck might actually end up being everything, but as Aziraphale had once said as he went off to tempt the Mother Superior of a Renaissance Roman convent with several bottles of the Mother Superior’s favorite wine, a bolt of silk the exact color of her eyes, and in-depth knowledge of every member of the Mother Superior’s extensive family, luck favors the prepared.

(Crowley himself had been unable to perform the temptation because he’d been barely able to move after a particularly harsh reprimand in Hell. Aziraphale had done that temptation for him with no questions asked, after forcing several glasses of brandy down the demon’s throat and tucking him under the softest blankets he could summon, drunk and somewhat anesthetized. This was one of the many kind things Aziraphale had done for Crowley that Crowley’s mind had for some reason completely forgotten about when he had stormed out of Aziraphale’s bookshop, but now kept kindly producing for Crowley’s consideration. Crowley was beginning to think that Hell had missed some huge opportunities in torture when it failed to properly investigate the well-executed guilt trip.) 

Crowley wouldn’t be able to use his own infernal magic in Heaven. It would have felt so out of place that the moment he executed a demonic miracle, the entire Heavenly Host would have immediately descended upon him. Whatever tools he used, he would have to bring with him. Angels had weaknesses, just as demons did. Hellfire was the most obvious weakness, but it was not the only one. Items forged in Hell could be used to hurt them. And just as rosaries and crosses were painful to demons, pentacles could be used against angels. 

Crowley had a few unsavory occult connections that he had never introduced to Aziraphale. In fact, he had made sure that these individuals did not even know of Aziraphale’s existence. Aziraphale was too good to allow these people to come within a stone’s throw of the angel. All the same, when one needed to arm oneself against Heaven, who better to seek out than Satanists?

After a long, in-depth discussion followed by an intense bout of haggling with an alarmingly fervent pair of cultists, Crowley walked away with a wallet that was much lighter than it was before the meeting (which bothered him not at all, considering all his money had been summoned from nothing), an amulet that would “hide him from the eyes of God and God’s servants,” and a wrought iron pentacle on a long, cruel-looking chain. Crowley could only hope that his new tools worked as well as advertised. He’d only been to Heaven once since Falling, and he hadn’t made any friends on that trip. Ironically, the only friend he had in Heaven was the one who had recently doomed himself by refusing an offer to return to the Heavenly Host.

Crowley felt powerfully touched that that bit of bribery hadn’t worked. He’d thought (well, feared) that if Aziraphale was ever offered a place back in Heaven, he’d walk away from Crowley and never look back. Evidently, Crowley had been wrong, and he was struggling to avoid the temptation of examining what that decision implied about Aziraphale’s emotions and state of mind on certain… things.

Crowley’s plan was simple, mostly because he didn’t have enough information to come up with anything intricate. Crowley was going to Heaven. With the amulet in his pocket, he should (theoretically) be able to walk right up the main escalators without anyone noticing the slightest thing wrong. Once there, he’d have to sneak and spy around until he could find where they were keeping Aziraphale. When he had Aziraphale free, the two of them would have to figure out a way to leave Heaven undetected—the Satanists had been quite clear that the amulet would do no good in the hands of an angel. 

It wasn’t a great plan. It really wasn’t even a good plan. Honestly, it wasn’t a plan at all—just collecting a pocket full of tricks and steeling his nerve. But what else could he do? Aziraphale had always been the clever one. Aziraphale was the one whom came up with plans.

(For instance, when Gabriel and Sandalphon had beaten Crowley to a pulp and tried to bury him in consecrated ground, Aziraphale had distracted them by setting fire to the church where a prized early manuscript of the New Testament was being displayed. He’d whisked Crowley away from right under their noses and hidden him with a trusted friend to convalesce, then managed to trick Gabriel into revealing his actions in front of the disapproving Heavenly Host. All without once showing his hand. It had been brilliant, and perfectly executed. Crowley wished he had that sort of plan in mind. But he knew that sort of ploy was beyond him, especially given the time allotted.)

Nonetheless, Crowley’s nerve had never failed him. Crowley’s nerve had averted the Apocalypse. Certainly it would be enough to let him walk in and out of Heaven.

__________

Watching the blank faces of the angels look straight through him as they carried out Heaven’s affairs was the most disconcerting experience of Crowley’s very long life. He’d gone up the escalator on his own and almost collided with an angel at the very top. He’d contorted his body in a very snakelike fashion to avoid contact, and the wind created by his motion made the angel freeze and spin around, looking urgently for the unseen source. He’d stared at Crowley without registering anything other than empty space and had gone about his business. 

Crowley was grateful that he didn’t need to breathe.

He crept about in the light-filled atrium of Heaven, shivering slightly. He’d always found Heaven to be as beautiful and frigid as the most pretentious of museums, and just as impersonal. He tried to ignore the glacial atmosphere and focus on what was being said around him, but unlike demons, angels didn’t tend to chat with one another. _No wonder Aziraphale didn’t fit in here._ What he heard said was direct and to the point. 

“Corel, I need those reports immediately.”

“The quartermaster has completed collecting all the flaming swords. They are properly stored, for whenever we may need them.”

“I want a count of souls gained this month, immediately.”

Crowley had been hovering in as small a corner as he could manage for near four hours, becoming increasingly nervous and desperate, when he finally heard a familiarly smarmy voice.

“Michael, status update? Have there been any developments?”

Crowley whipped around. _Michael. And that’s Gabriel talking to her._

Gabriel and Michael stood only ten feet away with a third angel Crowley didn’t recognize. Crowley melted into the wall and hunched down; he didn’t want any other passing angel to walk into him while he eavesdropped.

“None, sir. He hasn’t said a word.”

Gabriel looked irked, as if with a petulant child. “Unbelievable,” he exclaimed, in much the same tone Crowley had heard a woman use at a coffee shop when told that the barista was out of sugar-free pumpkin spice flavoring. “Does he just not know? Maybe he wasn’t as closely allied with that demon as we thought.” 

“Perhaps. He claimed not to know where the demon Crowley was when we first asked,” Michael mused. “But once we began our more… enhanced interrogation, he stopped talking altogether. To be frank, if he truly didn’t know anything, I’d expect him to be making things up by now. Just trying to tell us what we want to hear. But he’s silent.”

“You think he does know something,” Gabriel looked eager.

“I’m all but certain,” Michael said confidently. “But I confess, I didn’t anticipate having to go as far as we have gone. Permission to take extraordinary measures.”

Gabriel opened his mouth to answer, and the third angel—a small, twitchy looking creature—said suddenly, “Haven’t we done that already?” 

Gabriel and Michael looked at him, as if surprised that the angel had the power of speech. The angel looked rather surprised himself. Crowley got the feeling that the angel was much younger than Gabriel and Michael, or indeed Aziraphale, though Crowley wasn’t sure from where that impression came (after all, an angel’s physical appearance indicated little about the interior essence). Something about the angel’s deferential tone and lack of finesse spoke to inexperience.

“Toviel?” Gabriel inquired, in the way one would ask a child if he had stolen a cookie. 

“It’s just,” the angel said miserably, “He’s one of us. Or he used to be. And he hasn’t hurt anyone. Not really.”

“Toviel,” Gabriel said sadly, “He hurt the Great Plan.”

“I know that,” Toviel said quickly, “But he did it to avert a war. Obviously he was wrong.” Toviel seemed anxious to make it clear that ultimately, he agreed with Gabriel. “But… it seems as if he meant well. Wanted to... do good.”

“It’s not enough to mean well,” Michael said crisply. “And everything that is happening to him is his own fault. We didn’t start with this. He could have told us where the demon was and rejoined us.”

“I know," said Toviel miserably. “I don’t understand either.”

“Toviel,” Gabriel said chidingly. “Be careful asking questions. They only lead angels in one direction.”

Toviel looked stricken.

“Weren’t you on your way somewhere? I’ll speak to you about the situation in… what country did you say it was? The Ukraine? We can speak about that later.”

Toviel knew dismissal when he heard it and fled in apparent relief.

Gabriel turned to Michael. “Permission granted. Who’s with Aziraphale now?”

“Sandalphon.”

“Feel free to relieve him. Send him to me, if you would.”

Michael turned with an almost military about-face. Crowley followed her into a nearby hallway. 

__________

Michael wound her way briskly, heels clicking neatly on the floors, through a network of white halls into a quieter wing, separate from the main goings on of Heaven. The wing was made up of rooms that had no bars on the windows and no visible locks on the doors. All the same, Crowley was certain he was in a prison. Michael walked up to a door and gave the knob a soft pat; Crowley heard a mechanism inside the knob whir and click. She opened the door, and Crowley stood to one side, unable to see around the corner into the room but able to hear all that was said. 

“You’re relieved, Sandalphon. Let me take over. Gabriel wants to see you.”

Sandalphon walked out, the bald head and slumping shoulders an almost comedic contrast to Michael’s immaculate visage. Sandalphon carelessly gave the door a yank on his way out, not turning around to see if it closed completely, and Crowley darted silently forward and stuck his foot in the door to keep it from shutting completely. He paused behind it, terrified, listening to hear if Michael had noticed the absence of the click of the knob connecting with the frame. 

“Aziraphale, you must admit, we’ve done our best for you,” Michael said inside, clearly oblivious to anything else. “But you are out of chances, Principality. Do you know what is coming next?” 

There was no answer. Why was there no answer? Was Aziraphale able to answer?

“We’re going to take your wings. You would be the first angel to be permanently grounded. Pinioned. You’ll never fly again.” 

No reaction.

“Suppose that would suit you. What kind of angel can’t fly? Perhaps the kind that makes friends with demons.” 

Still nothing. No answer.

“You could stop this now, Aziraphale. You can still redeem yourself. Where is he? Where is the demon Crowley?” 

No answer. 

“Principality, you have no other choice. Why do you persist in the most painful course of action? Why don’t you try to make things right?” 

Silence. _Say something, Aziraphale. Give me a sign._

“Alright, Aziraphale. As you like.” And Crowley heard the soft ring of a blade being drawn. 

He was in the room before he could think, before he could begin to put together a plan of attack. Fortunately, his instincts were operating far more effectively than his executive decision-making abilities. He entered on silent feet, one hand already preparing the chain and pentacle, knowing the amulet would cease to shield him the moment he laid hands on Michael. Before Michael could turn around, however, he had the chain wrapped around her throat, ripping her back from Aziraphale.

Aziraphale, who hung limply from the ceiling by his wrists, facing the far wall, his back bare and striped with lashes, his wings extended and pinned to opposite walls by ugly nails, the tips bent almost perpendicular to the rest of the wing against the walls in a position that almost certainly had broken some of the smaller bones. That was all Crowley could absorb, all his horrified mind would permit, before he had Michael up against his body, her back pressed against his chest, his right hand pulling the chain tight around her neck, and the other holding a conjured ember of Hellfire in front of her face. 

“Drop the blade.” His voice was flat and dark, leaving no room for defiance, and he was shocked at the sound of it.

The blade fell to the floor with a clatter.

“Release him.” His voice was if anything harsher than before, but Michael hesitated. 

“Do you know who I am, Michael?” Crowley crooned into her ear. 

Michael shuddered, and nodded.

“Then you know what I want to do to you right now. You have only one way out of this alive. Cut him down. _Now._ ”

Michael was shaking with what Crowley suspected was more fury than fear, but there was enough fear present for his purposes. He shoved her forward, and Michael pulled the nails out of Aziraphale’s wings with more efficiency than gentleness. Crowley winced, but Aziraphale made no noise; nor did he react when Michael untied the knots securing his wrists. He simply crumpled soundlessly to the floor.

Crowley barely restrained himself from catching Aziraphale before he could hit the ground. The moment he left Michael unattended was the moment Aziraphale would be back in chains, and at that point he likely would be imprisoned as well. “Look at him, Michael,” he spat into the angel’s (not _his_ angel, definitely not) ear. “Look at what you’ve done to him.” He felt her head incline to look towards the floor, where Aziraphale lay in a motionless heap. “He is your savior.” He felt her start a bit in surprise. “Because I want to kill you so badly. And the only reason I am not is because I know what he would say to me afterwards.”

Michael opened her mouth, but before she could make a sound, Crowley tightened the chain at her throat. He saw the pentacle begin to glow with a light that somehow absorbed light. Michael gasped for breath, despite not technically needing to breathe, her hands scrabbling uselessly at the fabric of Crowley’s pantlegs. Crowley watched with interest as her neck turned red, the tendons standing out, until finally she slumped, unconscious and sapped, to the floor.

He held the chain taut on her throat a moment longer, just to be sure, but removed it reluctantly before her essence was drained utterly, shoving the pentacle safely back into his pocket as he fell over his inert angel. 

“Az… Aziraphale?” 

Nothing. No movement. No sound.

“Damn it.” Crowley reached out and took Aziraphale by the shoulders. He turned the angel over as gently as he knew how, careful of the mutilated wings. When he could finally see Aziraphale’s face, part of him wished he still could not. 

It wasn’t the bruises. It wasn’t the eye, puffy and swollen, or the split lips, or the cut on his forehead that for some reason was still open and weeping. It wasn’t even the lack of color, the terrifying paleness. 

It was the blankness. The absence of any movement or feeling. There was nothing there. 

“Aziraphale, damn it. Open your eyes.”

Aziraphale had always been brimming with life, vibrant with love and sentiment. No matter how much Crowley may have mocked him for it, he secretly loved how the angel just had _no chill,_ no subtlety, no ability to hide his every emotion. Even in Aziraphale’s rare moments of sleep, Crowley could look at Aziraphale and immediately know what he was feeling. The morning after the aborted Apocalypse, Crowley had greeted Aziraphale with coffee by saying, “You clearly had pleasant dreams last night.” Aziraphale had asked indignantly how exactly Crowley knew anything about Aziraphale’s dreams. Crowley would never confess to anyone, and certainly not to Aziraphale himself, that he knew the quality of his angel’s dreams because he had sat up most of the night and watched Aziraphale’s face as he slept, reading every emotion as it passed.

Now there was nothing. Just a grey, still countenance. 

“Fuck, fuck, oh fucking Hell fuck.”

And somehow, that was what provoked a reaction. Aziraphale’s eyes opened as slowly as the rising sun. He gazed up at Crowley without reaction, placid and hardly more animated than he had been in unconsciousness. Finally, he gave a small, wistful smile. 

Crowley barely restrained himself from crying. Instead, he reached down and stroked his fingers down Aziraphale’s pale cheek.

Immediately, Aziraphale’s smile was replaced with a look of confusion. “Crowley?” He asked, his voice weak but alarmed. 

“I’m here, angel.” Crowley ran his hand through the bedraggled curls, but Aziraphale was beginning to drift again. 

“Crowley… they want Crowley,” he muttered as his eyes fluttered closed, and he went limp. 

Something sparked in the periphery of Crowley’s vision. He followed it and saw the bindings from which Michael had freed Aziraphale. Crowley looked closer and noticed that the bindings shone with miracles—miracles that not only repressed access to celestial magic, but kept their prisoner conscious, aware, and cogent. 

Of course. They couldn’t have Aziraphale healing himself or trying to escape, but they also couldn’t have him passing out from pain while he was being interrogated. They needed him awake and able to answer questions. With no threat of unconsciousness and no need for sustenance, the angels had never needed to stop. Aziraphale had had no respite. And now that he had been freed, everything that had been done to him, all 23 days of it, was hitting him all at once.

Terrified of what he would find, Crowley shifted his vision to look down inside Aziraphale, to where his essence resided. 

He could have wept. An angel’s (or demon’s) essence was immortal, but not completely impervious. Some things could hurt them—Hellfire destroyed angels, as Holy Water did demons. And sometimes, angelic essence could simply be worn down until there was nothing left. Aziraphale’s essence was faint and fading, sapped by the weeks of pain and a dearth of hope. Crowley had never felt Aziraphale so dim. If he couldn’t regain some strength, he would go out like a candle. 

How was Crowley supposed to fix that? He couldn’t strengthen an angel’s essence with any demonic magic.

_Right. One problem at a time._ They needed to leave. Now. Immediately. Yesterday. He slid his arms under Aziraphale and tried to lift him, but his wings were still out, broken and tender on the floor, and they made Aziraphale’s body too unwieldy to manage.

“Aziraphale. Hey, Aziraphale!” Crowley patted Aziraphale’s cheek, and then slapped it gently. “Come on, angel, look at me!”

Aziraphale blinked wearily, his eyes unfocused. 

“Angel, you need to put away your wings. Can you do that for me?”

Aziraphale spoke without comprehension. “You can’t have him,” he murmured emphatically. “You can’t have Crowley.” 

“Oh angel,” Crowley breathed. “I’m right here. Please. Put away your wings for me, and I can take you home. Please?” 

Aziraphale looked up at him, then seemed to summon himself. His wings vanished, blinked briefly back into existence, then finally were gone. 

“Well done, angel. Well done. You did great.” Crowley pulled Aziraphale into a rough bridal carry and stood with him in his arms. “I’ve got this now.” 

Aziraphale did not respond. His neck lolled bonelessly as Crowley cautiously edged his way out of the small, white cell. 

This had always been the weakest part of Crowley’s plan. Honestly, he had no idea how to get himself and Aziraphale out of Heaven unnoticed. The amulet in his pocket wouldn’t hide Aziraphale, and his presence in Crowley’s arms was limiting its effect on Crowley. Standing in the hallway outside Aziraphale’s cell, Crowley knew they would be plain as day to anyone who happened to come by. And someone certainly would. When Michael failed to report to Gabriel, an entire cohort of angels would undoubtedly all come running. 

He thought of the last time he had been this desperate. Of being drunk and heartbroken in a seedy pub until he was told to get a “wiggle on” by his discorporated friend, then facing a ring of fire in his Bentley. He’d needed to get through that fire, and he’d needed to play a little game of pretend to do it. 

The main door to and from Heaven was too public, but he knew of many other ways in and out. If he could be assured that the way was clear, he felt certain he could make one particular side stairway safely. What he needed was a distraction, but any demonic magic would lead every angel in Heaven to his location. 

Fortunately, Crowley did have one ability no angel knew about and no other demon had. He had an imagination. And if that imagination had brought him safely though a ring of fire in a burning car, he didn’t see why it couldn’t get him the Hell out of Heaven.

Crowley closed his eyes and imagined with every bit of himself that the entrance to Heaven was visible to all humans, that in fact it appeared to all humans to be an Apple store, and that that Apple store was loudly and proudly selling the latest iPhone for only 20 euro. 

He stood in that quiet hallway, eyes screwed shut, refusing to admit the existence of any reality in which the entrance to Heaven wasn’t the slick, white storefront of an Apple store.

And finally, he heard it.

“What are they doing? _The humans have gone crazy!”_

“How many are there?”

“Hundreds! And they are all coming up the escalator!”

“They can’t be allowed up here!”

“Move. _MOVE!_ ”

Crowley heard a rustle of wings and the sound of many, many angelic feet moving at a less than dignified pace towards the main escalator. Crowley allowed himself one jubilant smile and a vicious crow of laughter before he started trotting towards the side exit, Aziraphale still cradled against him.

He was so close. He had almost made it. He was ten steps shy, the unobtrusive door in sight, when he heard a soft gasp that froze him in place.

He turned, dread in his heart, and saw the angel he had overheard talking to Gabriel and Michael— _what’s his name? Right, Toviel._ Toviel stood frozen, the restless motion of his hands stilled, and regarded Crowley in utter shock. 

Crowley felt the blood drain from his face. He wanted to weep. He stood, despondent and resigned, and waited for Toviel to call for reinforcements. Waited for an army of angels to descend and rip his angel from him and lock them both away.

But Toviel didn’t move. He just stared at Crowley. Or, rather, at Aziraphale, motionless in Crowley’s arms.

Crowley found himself pleading, his voice quiet and desperate. “Please.”

Toviel said nothing.

“Please. He’ll die if he stays.” Crowley’s swallowed, and his voice broke as he said, “He’s dying already.” Was Aziraphale even alive now? Crowley could no longer feel him breathing.

Toviel didn’t move.

“Look, you can have me,” Crowley offered without thought. “I was what you lot wanted anyway. Just let me get him somewhere safe, and I’ll come back. I swear—I’ll swear by anything you want—I’ll come back.” Crowley knew he was begging, begging a fucking angel for the privilege of handing himself over to Heaven, and he didn’t fucking care. “Just let me save him. Please.” 

Toviel’s eyes went from Aziraphale’s body to Crowley’s face for the barest moment, and he finally moved. He stepped forward deliberately, first giving a darting glance over one shoulder to make sure they were still unobserved. He advanced on Crowley and Aziraphale resolutely, despite the way Crowley reflexively clutched Aziraphale tighter to his chest at Toviel’s approach.

Ignoring Crowley utterly, Toviel placed a hand on Aziraphale’s forehead. Crowley grit his teeth and tried not to snarl, muscles clenched to snatch Aziraphale away. 

But Crowley’s impulse was aborted when, a moment later, he felt something inside of Aziraphale begin to brighten. His essence, which Crowley realized now had been guttering on the verge of being extinguished forever, suddenly grew stronger. By no means powerful, but at least somewhat steady. 

Aziraphale’s shallow breaths deepened.

Crowley suppressed a sob of relief and looked up at Toviel, who was looking back at him.

“Go,” he said. “Go and don’t come back. If I see you again, I’ll smite you.”

And he turned on his heel and disappeared down the corridor.

Crowley didn’t need to be told twice. He backed away, stunned, then whirled around to shoulder the door open and race down the stairs as quickly as he could with his angel in his arms.


	3. Chapter Three

One silent car ride later, the longest of Crowley’s life, Crowley was lifting Aziraphale out of the back seat of the Bentley and carrying him into his cottage by the sea. Aziraphale hadn’t moved for the whole of the trip, but the sound of the ocean and the salt-tinged breeze seemed to penetrate his consciousness. He didn’t wake, but he stirred gently in Crowley’s arms and let out a soft hum.

“I’ve got you, angel. We’re safe.” Crowley stepped inside the cottage, gently kicking the door shut behind them. “This place is warded to the ‘nth degree. No one can see it, not even if they are specifically looking for us, and no one can get in.”

Aziraphale smiled faintly at the sound of Crowley’s voice, so Crowley elaborated.

“Safest place for us, angel. Truly, no one comes in without my say so. No demon, no angel, no…” Crowley stopped suddenly.

He’d meant to construct the wards so that only he would be allowed into the cottage. He had expected to have to draw the wards aside to bring Aziraphale through the front door. But he’d been distracted by the faint signs of life Aziraphale had shown outside, and he had walked into the cottage with his angel without thought. And there had been no problem. The wards hadn’t objected at all.

He carried Aziraphale to the small bedroom and laid him on the bed, snapping his fingers to change him from his ruined clothes into soft flannel pajamas ( _tartan, he’ll get a kick out of that_ ), then walked dazedly back into the main living area, shifting his gaze to look at the fabric of the wards around his cottage.

Aziraphale was in every line, every inkling of the magic. Just as Aziraphale had appeared in the cottage’s furnishings without his intention, Crowley had made him a part of the cottage’s protections without even thinking about it, without even realizing he’d done it. Crowley hadn’t had to lower the wards to bring Aziraphale in because the cottage had never been shielded from him. Which meant that Aziraphale had always been able to find the cottage.

Crowley had assumed that Aziraphale had told the angels about his flat in Mayfair—had assumed that that was where Aziraphale would believe Crowley to be. But Aziraphale and Crowley had been friends for 6,000 years. Without active wards, Aziraphale could always find Crowley, just as Crowley could always find Aziraphale. For every moment he was in Heaven, Aziraphale had known about the cottage. He had known exactly where Crowley was.

And he had said nothing. 

__________

Crowley sat on the edge of the bed next to the still unconscious angel and sponged blood and sweat off his skin. As he bathed him, he uncovered more bruises and lacerations, some of which began to bleed as they were cleaned. Aziraphale’s ribs in particular were mottled ugly shades of blue, black, and yellow; Crowley could feel Aziraphale halt each inhalation abruptly and exhale hurriedly, clearly unable to take a deep breath without pain. Crowley healed what he could, though he felt certain he was doing so somewhat clumsily. Demonic magic wasn’t naturally soothing, and it was hard to force his magic to heal another, but as far as Crowley was concerned, where there was a will, there was a way. And Crowley had the fucking will.

Counting the injuries on Aziraphale’s body, all of them suffered for Crowley’s sake, felt like penance. He felt like a foolhardy idiot for thinking that he had been truly rescuing Aziraphale. By the time Crowley had made it to Heaven, Aziraphale had already saved his life three times over. Every day the entire force of Heaven hadn’t descended upon the cottage to cart him off in chains had been by the grace of Aziraphale. Crowley tried to understand why he was so surprised by Aziraphale’s loyalty. Part of him wasn’t surprised at all—after all, as Crowley had been forced to remember, Aziraphale had stuck his neck out for him before. But this wasn’t performing a temptation, or even sneaking him Holy Water. Angels had asked Aziraphale to give Crowley up. When Aziraphale had refused, they’d bribed him. When he’d refused again, they’d taken him. When he’d refused once more, they’d tortured him. 

And still, Aziraphale had refused. 

He must have known he was dying. If his ebbing essence had been obvious to Crowley, it would have been impossible for Aziraphale to ignore. Crowley remembered Michael standing in that cell with an angelic sword, threatening to take Aziraphale’s wings. Aziraphale had been silent. He hadn’t even bothered to beg.

_“You can’t have him. You can’t have Crowley.”_

Crowley wet the flannel again, summoning and adding a little soap to the water, and smoothed the flannel through Aziraphale’s hair. Blood had dried and crusted in the white-blond curls; he had to work at the caked locks to get them clean. The gentle motion of Crowley’s scrubbing and the cool water in his hair finally roused Aziraphale. He sighed and twisted his head towards Crowley, eyelids fluttering, then blinked owlishly in the soft light of the bedroom.

“Hey, angel. You with me?” 

Aziraphale looked back at him, his lips parted. His brow furrowed in puzzlement.

“Aziraphale?” 

Still, Aziraphale didn’t speak. He looked around the room as if in a dream.

Well, if Aziraphale was still somewhat out of it, now might be the least painful time to address his wings. “Angel, I’m sorry to ask, but your wings—I think they are hurt. Maybe broken. I need to see them.” 

Aziraphale didn’t look at him, but he shuddered slightly and shrank into the bed.

“I know, angel. But the sooner we start, the sooner it will be over.” Crowley put the flannel back into the bowl, where the water was now clouded with blood. “Turn over for me, angel. Please.”

Aziraphale looked at him for a long moment before turning onto his stomach, moaning a bit at the pressure on his newly healed ribs, and brought out his wings.

It was worse than Crowley had feared. The cuts and burns were ugly enough; large sections of feathers were missing, and those that were present were stained and sticky with blood. Some of the lacerations clearly came from a whip, while others were deep and deliberate enough to have been made by a blade. But all of that could have been cleaned, bandaged, and left to heal. 

It was the broken bones. Several of the fine bones at the tip of each wing had snapped like dry twigs under the pressure of the nails and the angle they had been forced to hold. Worse still, Crowley could see two major breaks closer to the shoulders, one in each wing. These had already begun to heal during Aziraphale's time in captivity. The angels hadn’t set them (of course they hadn’t), and now Aziraphale’s wings were viciously crooked. 

“Fuck,” Crowley muttered, then said quickly, “Sorry.” 

No response from the angel, but Crowley thought he might have felt a small chuckle reverberate through Aziraphale’s body. Something near Crowley’s heart squeezed at the angel’s ability to laugh at the oddest of times.

“Angel,” Crowley paused and licked his lips, then continued, “Your wings were broken, and they began to heal in the wrong position. For them to heal correctly, I’m going to have to rebreak them and set them properly. This is going to really hurt, but if I don’t do it you may never use them again.” Aziraphale didn’t say anything, but he was already gripping the sheets in preparation. “Aziraphale, if you’d let me,” Crowley hesitated again, then barreled forward. “I can’t make this painless, and I can’t heal this magically—you know I can’t heal your wings.” A corporation was one thing, but wings were too closely connected to an angel’s essence to be healed by a demon’s magic. “But I can put you to sleep, for a while. And keep you asleep while I do this.” 

Aziraphale’s right hand released the sheets and shot out to grab Crowley’s arm. “Don’t,” he said. “Please don’t.” They were the first lucid words Aziraphale had spoken.

He sounded frightened. Deeply and genuinely frightened. 

Crowley sighed. _He doesn’t trust me._ It hurt, but he understood and didn’t argue. “If you’re sure,” he said grudgingly, and began.

It was nightmarish. Crowley had tempted so many innocents, been party to the birth of the Antichrist, looked into the eyes of the soon-to-be victims of the Great Flood, and somehow this was the worst thing he had ever done in his long life. The dull cracks of Aziraphale’s half-healed bones in the quiet of the room seemed deafening. Aziraphale didn’t cry out, was clearly trying to make this easier for Crowley, but Crowley could feel him vibrate with pain as he moved the bones back into the proper position and bound them tightly to a splint he fashioned in his mind and summoned from nothing.

“Please,” Crowley begged after he’d finished the first wing and was steeling himself to face the second. “Please let me put you to sleep.”

Aziraphale’s head jerked around to stare over his shoulder at Crowley, his eyes wide, and he cowered beneath the blankets. 

His best friend and the love of his life was terrified of him. Crowley wanted to cry. 

__________

Aziraphale spent the next several days lying in the cottage bedroom with the curtains drawn, facing the wall. He didn’t speak. He barely moved. 

Crowley went out of his way to keep his distance as much as he could after that panicked look Aziraphale had given him. Since the angel was still too weak to stand, and really in too much pain to move much at all, Crowley brought him mugs of tea and trays of food, but otherwise stayed out of the bedroom. The tea was occasionally sipped, but the food was largely ignored, despite Crowley’s attempt to find things he knew might tempt Aziraphale. It was unsettling. One of Aziraphale’s favorite things used to be a long lunch at the Ritz that edged into dinner. Now, he could only manage a few swallows of broth before he turned away, and even those few mouthfuls were taken only to appease Crowley. 

As horrific as it was, Crowley wasn’t surprised by Aziraphale’s terror of him when he was setting his bones. After all, Crowley had picked a fight with the angel, walked out on him, and left him to be kidnapped and tormented for almost a month before he’d finally summoned himself to sneak into Heaven and secret him out. Crowley’s anger and carelessness had left Aziraphale alone just when he needed him. Aziraphale had had to choose between giving Crowley up and submitting to torture and death. He picked torture and death; God knows he must resent Crowley mightily now. God knows he must wonder what kind of creature could have put Aziraphale in that position. Crowley got it. Honestly, if he were Aziraphale, he wouldn’t bother with fear. He’d skip straight to hatred.

_I hate myself already._

As far as Crowley could tell, Aziraphale didn’t sleep. Every time he checked on him, usually surreptitiously, the angel was lying with his eyes wide open. Even if the angel was facing away from the door to the bedroom, Crowley could see by the pattern of his breaths that Aziraphale was awake; his breathing was neither deep nor even enough to reflect sleep. Obviously, neither of them truly needed sleep the way humans did (and Aziraphale had never made a habit of it as Crowley had), but Crowley couldn’t help but think that a brief escape from reality might do the angel some good.

Crowley didn’t know what to do. Aziraphale was apathetic and withdrawn. Crowley left him books, but Aziraphale didn’t do any reading. His essence was not in danger of going out, but it hadn’t revived any further since Toviel had brought it back from the brink. Aziraphale seemed stuck in a sort of stasis.

Crowley wanted to respect Aziraphale enough to stay away from him, given the fear he clearly inspired in the angel, but he couldn’t bring himself to go far. Mostly, if he wasn’t making tea or searching for books that might interest his angel, he just sat listlessly in the hallway outside the bedroom. Which was why he was right on hand the night he heard Aziraphale cry out.

_“Crowley!”_

Crowley was through the door and into the bedroom before the sound had died away. 

“ _Angel!_ ” Crowley looked around the room wildly, looking for danger or attackers despite the wards he could feel still in place all around them, and of course found nothing. “Angel, what is it? What’s wrong?”

_Stupid question,_ Crowley thought. _He was tortured for 23 days and nearly died. What the fuck do you think is wrong?_

The angel sat bolt upright in his bed, tears on his cheeks and sleep in his eyes. His chest heaved and his hands shook. He looked lost and so frightened.

“Oh,” he said softly. “I’m… I’m afraid I… I’m sorry.”

Crowley broke.

He stumbled forward and fell onto the bed, intending to beg Aziraphale for forgiveness, but before he could, he found himself with an armful of traumatized angel. And that was fine too. Crowley could beg for forgiveness while holding Aziraphale. He could spill out nonsense and hyperventilate while one arm clutched bruisingly tight around Aziraphale’s middle and the other gently cradled the blond head against his shoulder. He could self-flagellate while filling his nose with the rising-bread-and-warm-sunlight smell of his angel.

“Angel, I’m so sorry, it’s my fault, please forgive me, I didn’t mean to, I didn’t know, you’ve got to believe I didn’t know, please believe me, please don’t be scared of me, I’d never hurt you, I’d crash the Bentley off the downs first, _for God’s sake don’t be scared of me,_ I can’t take it, please angel I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry…”

At some point Crowley realized that while he had been falling apart, Aziraphale had been taking deep breaths against Crowley’s chest and methodically putting himself back together. He was now, at this point, calmer than Crowley. And in a ridiculous turn of events, he had begun stroking Crowley’s back, trying to soothe the panic-stricken demon.

_Real smooth Crowley. Way to be supportive. Well done._

“Crowley?” said the angel from where he was nestled below Crowley’s chin. “My dear, are you alright?” 

_Satan, no._

“Crowley?” The angel squirmed a bit, but Crowley couldn’t force his arms to loosen. “Dear boy, why on God’s green Earth would I be afraid of you?” 

“You don’t have to be nice to me, angel.” Crowley felt himself perilously close to unraveling entirely and clenched his jaw until he felt his own teeth grind together. And still, he couldn’t make himself release his hold on the angel. “You haven’t let me near you since I set your wings.”

“ _Let_ you near me? You haven’t _come_ near me! Why on Earth would you think I wouldn’t want you with me?” Aziraphale pushed back against Crowley’s chest again, aiming for freedom. “Crowley, let me go.”

Immediately, Crowley’s arms fell away from Aziraphale, and he pulled back in panic. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to… I didn’t mean…” 

But Aziraphale didn’t go far. He pulled back just far enough to look Crowley in the eyes but kept a hold of Crowley’s forearms. “Crowley, I thought… well I don’t know what I thought. I knew you wanted some distance—clearly you did—but I thought it was because you were angry with me…”

“Angry?” Crowley felt vaguely indignant. Did Aziraphale think he was entirely braindead? _Why the Heaven wouldn’t he think that? You’ve done nothing but fuck up and make mistakes._ “Why would I be angry with you? Should I be angry with you for saving my life?”

“I think you’ve got that backwards, my dear,” Aziraphale said with a doleful flick of a smile. “That’s what you did for me. And it’s hardly the first time. You’ve always had to come pull me out of whatever trouble I’ve gotten myself into.”

“Gotten yourself in trouble…” Crowley cast his eyes skyward for a moment and huffed out a breath in exasperation. “Angel, Heaven came for you because of what we did together. And it took ten of them to drag you back upstairs. Rest assured, if ten demons ever bothered to come for me, odds are I’d be taking a little trip down to Hell. This wasn’t your fault.” 

“I know it wasn’t my fault, per se,” Aziraphale hedged. “I’m just sorry. I know the danger I exposed you to…” 

“For Satan’s sake, I’m not completely stupid, angel!” Crowley burst out. “I was the danger! They took you because they wanted me!” He searched Aziraphale’s wan face for any acknowledgment of the magnitude of what Aziraphale had done, but the angel seemed unimpressed. “Angel,” Crowley said, lowering his voice with conscious effort, “I know I wouldn’t have lived past the day Heaven came for you had you not kept your mouth shut for my sake." _And paid for it in blood._ Never mind that it had taken Crowley far too long to realize. Up to this point, he had been struggling to avoid eye contact with Aziraphale, but he chose that moment to look his angel dead in the eye. “They wanted me. And you knew where I was. The whole time. You knew about this cottage.” 

Aziraphale didn’t react. “Yes, dear boy. Of course I did.” He looked around himself. “And it is as lovely as I imagined.” 

“Fuck, angel, you should have told them!” _Now_ Crowley was angry. “If something ever comes for me, you don’t put yourself between me and it, do you hear? You stand to one side and show it the way!” 

“Fuck that!” 

Crowley was stunned into silence. His prim, dainty angel had just uttered an obscenity? Apparently, Aziraphale was far from done. From the look in his eyes, the angel had built up a head of steam.

“What if I’d done that, Crowley? What if I’d taken Heaven’s first offer and given you up in exchange for a welcome home? To what home would I be returning?” Aziraphale scoffed. “Let’s leave to one side that, for three millennia at least, Heaven has been the place where I was always the eccentric, the one who had been downstairs too long and had ‘gone native.’ The angel the others were permitted to poke at and put down.” Aziraphale shook his head sadly. “I could have lived with that. Lord knows I put up with it for far too long. Because for far too long I wanted so to belong there. What I couldn’t take was losing you. Or letting anyone harm you.” Aziraphale looked repentant now. “Ironic, given how much I’ve hurt you myself,” he said with deep self-reproach. “You weren’t wrong, my dear. That night we fought—”

“I lost my temper, angel,” Crowley interrupted hurriedly. “Please don’t take that on yourself. The things I said that night weren’t fair…”

“I know you lost your temper. But nothing you said was wrong, Crowley. I’m so deeply sorry.”

Crowley was too flabbergasted at the absurdity of Aziraphale apologizing to him to speak to correct him.

“Please know it was never a matter of not caring for you. But I knew you didn’t want… and I never wanted to push something, and there was a certain amount of self-preservation…” Aziraphale blushed. Crowley felt incredibly confused, but Aziraphale didn't give him time to ponder. “More importantly, I just thought I couldn’t… I thought that the closer we became, the more I— well, in any case, I believed it would bring me closer to Falling, and you to dying. I was scared, and so I kept making the same mistake over and over for six thousand years. It took me far too long to choose you. I was a fool.” Aziraphale looked to one side, clearly ashamed. “You’ve been the best, most important thing in my life for literal ages, Crowley. There is no home without you. There was no choice.”

Crowley had stopped breathing somewhere in the middle of Aziraphale’s outburst. 

“If you don’t want my… companionship… or my friendship anymore, Crowley, that is perfectly fair and understandable,” Aziraphale said, clearly attempting to avoid his eyes. “Honestly. I have no expectations of you, and I want no charity.” There was an age-old insecurity in that remark. 

_What is he talking about? He has to know I love him. He has to know I’ll take however much companionship or friendship he is willing to offer._

“I appreciate what you did for me. I understand that you must have felt obligated, and you are burdened with more pity than any demon or angel ever should be. It was kind of you, but you should not feel tied to this situation.” Aziraphale pulled back a little, taking his hands away from Crowley’s waist so that he could wring them anxiously. “I’m sorry I’ve malingered. It’s just… I truly haven’t felt up to leaving. But I’m sure in a day or so, I can make my way home…”

“Shut up, angel.” Crowley curled his hand around the back of Aziraphale’s head and pulled him against his chest. His angel wasn’t going anywhere. “You aren’t malingering—you’re recovering.” He sighed. “And you don’t need to go home. You are home. This is your home for as long as you’d like. I made it for both of us.” Aziraphale exhaled against him, and Crowley realized that the angel had been expecting to be turned out at some point. “But angel, I know I wasn’t imagining this. Why were you so frightened of me?” 

“My dear boy, I truly don’t understand.”

“I know the way you looked at me!” Crowley pushed Aziraphale away and held him by the shoulders at arms’ length. “When I was setting your wings, angel. You weren’t just in pain. You were frightened. Why?”

Aziraphale shrugged and blushed. “Crowley, I was in Heaven a while. And with… everything… that happened…” He shrugged again and went strikingly pale after the faint blush. “I lost track of what was real and what was not.” Aziraphale seemed to steel himself, then said, “I saw you. Many times.” 

Crowley swallowed. 

Aziraphale looked down and away. “I knew you were a hallucination, or some form of waking dream. You never spoke, and you never touched me, and everything else kept happening around you. It should have bothered me. It was certainly a sign that I was deteriorating.” Aziraphale blinked fiercely. “But it was comforting to see you. Helped me remember why I was doing what I was doing. When you came to save me, I thought it was the same dream. Then I woke up here, and I thought I was truly dreaming. And I thought if I let myself sleep here, I’d wake up back in Heaven.” He was shivering now. Crowley felt sick. “I know it was unreasonable, I know you were just trying to help. It would have been easier for you if I had let you…”

“You slept tonight," Crowley said numbly. 

Aziraphale stopped. 

“I know the look. You’d just woken up when you screamed.” 

Aziraphale scrubbed one hand across his eyes and looked embarrassed. “Well, I certainly didn’t mean to, dear boy. I just got so tired. I’ve been so tired since…” He broke off. “Anyway, I imagine nightmares might be a recurring issue for a while.” 

Little was said for quite some time after that. Crowley, without remembering the series of events, found himself lying back against the headboard holding his angel huddled against him. Aziraphale didn’t cry or whimper. He simply lay silently against Crowley, his hand in a tight fist around a handful of Crowley’s t-shirt. Crowley, on the other hand and to his intense chagrin, shed quite a few tears, and then fell asleep after he was completely emptied of emotion. He woke up with his angel asleep on his chest, moving restlessly against him with heartbreaking little mews, and he carded a hand through the white blond hair until Aziraphale quieted. 

__________

That night changed the mood in the little cottage significantly, and for the better. Aziraphale wasn’t all of a sudden healed—unfortunately, this was something that neither angelic nor demonic miracles could fix. But now Crowley could place warm compresses on Aziraphale’s wings and ice packs on his ribs. He was allowed to sit in Aziraphale’s room in the afternoon and make the angel laugh. And when he brought Aziraphale books and cups of tea, the angel sometimes thanked him not just with words, but with a quick touch of his hand to Crowley’s. Oddly, Aziraphale always seemed to do this unintentionally, then blush afterwards and pull back, as if unsure if the gesture was welcome. Crowley didn’t know what to make of this, and thus didn’t address it.

Nights were hard. At night, Aziraphale’s wings became stiff and sore; they throbbed pitilessly whether Aziraphale had them out or not. Sometimes Aziraphale tried to sleep through the night to avoid the pain, but more often than not he would wake with a gasp from what was clearly a violent nightmare. When Crowley heard the telltale sign of Aziraphale’s night horrors, he would crack open the door and stick his head in to ask gently, “All right, angel?” Usually, Aziraphale would nod shakily, and Crowley would shut the door again. Occasionally, Aziraphale would look at him wordlessly, and Crowley would come in and slide onto the bed beside him so Aziraphale could lean into his chest and Crowley could stroke his hair. Aziraphale could drift off like that, and at that point, his sleep was usually restful. Crowley always made sure he was gone by the time the sun rose, and they never discussed these episodes in daylight.

Weeks passed in this fashion. Aziraphale’s nightmares became rarer. He began to chafe at the enforced bedrest; Crowley told him shortly that he was not yet recovered enough to be allowed up. Aziraphale put up with this restriction for a few days before simply joining Crowley in the main room one afternoon without warning or discussion. Crowley considered bullying him back to bed, but since Aziraphale was only sitting in an armchair in the sun with his book instead of lying in bed, Crowley shrugged and went to join him.

That first day, Aziraphale could only stay upright for the afternoon; he genuinely needed an astonishing amount of rest to recover. As the days passed, however, his strength returned, and his schedule slowly became more normal. He began insisting on making his own tea, or indeed making a cup for Crowley. An evening glass of wine became daily ritual (though Crowley insisted on limiting Aziraphale to one due to the vague notion that alcohol was bad for sick people). And Aziraphale began to make plans to depart.

Crowley tried to prevent any discussion of this. He didn’t want Aziraphale to leave. In truth, he was oddly happy with the angel in the next room. If it wasn’t all that he had ever wanted, it was a good bit more than he ever thought he would receive. He didn’t want his angel weak or sick, but the knowledge that his complete recovery would lead to his departure made him dread the full return of Aziraphale’s health. No matter how many times Crowley insisted that the cottage was as much Aziraphale’s as his, Aziraphale would only look at him with a perplexing air of sad understanding and say, “Come now, Crowley, you’ll get tired of me eventually.” 

Crowley might never have been able to dissuade Aziraphale had he not one day had a revelation, almost entirely by chance. 

This epiphany came to him on the evening after Aziraphale had, for the first time in over a month, taken a walk under his own power. His short stroll along the cliffs had tired him out, but also put the roses back in his cheeks. Aziraphale took this as a sign that he was almost recovered ( _he isn't, not yet, he isn't_ ), and he was making increasingly insistent comments about “getting out of your hair, my dear” (overtures Crowley was now struggling to dodge). It was all very stressful, and Crowley dealt with it the same way he usually dealt with stress—by drinking a bit too much. In fact, he had managed to surreptitiously put away an entire bottle of wine while Aziraphale nursed his single glass. 

Crowley was making himself and Aziraphale a cup of tea in the hopes of concealing his inebriation, Aziraphale standing in the kitchen nearby to prove both that he was able to stand and that Crowley wasn't fooling him at all, when something casually extraordinary happened. Crowley had finally managed to move the conversation away from Aziraphale’s plans to leave; Aziraphale was now nattering on passionately about the poetry of Samuel Taylor Coleridge while Crowley was good-naturedly heckling his rant, thinking how wonderful it was to see Aziraphale’s eyes sparkling with this level of enthusiasm. Crowley was thus a bit distracted when he reached out to pick up the teapot, and he accidently laid his hand on the very hot body of the pot rather than the relatively cool handle. Before he could even pull his hand back, Aziraphale reached out and snatched it away from the overly heated surface, exclaiming, “Crowley! My dear! Be careful!” Crowley’s eyes instantly fastened onto Aziraphale, but Aziraphale didn’t notice, too busy urgently cradling Crowley’s hand in his and blowing cool air across the palm in search of any sign of an emerging burn.

Crowley wasn’t sure why that did it. He wasn’t sure why that odd little gesture finally triggered a revelation when everything that had come before had not. But as Crowley stood stock-still, somewhat stupefied, watching Aziraphale tend a hand that was not even burned (and even if it had been, he would have barely felt it, given he was a supernatural entity with far more resistance to injuries than humans), Crowley suddenly saw what had been right under his nose for Someone knows how many years. “You love me,” he blurted, staring at Aziraphale in wonder.

Aziraphale glanced up at him, and Crowley recognized chagrin and melancholy, but no surprise, before his angel looked back down at his hand. “Crowley,” he said tiredly, “Please don’t.” 

Crowley couldn’t absorb those words or fathom why Aziraphale was saying them. _Don’t do what? Don’t talk about it? We have to! It’s a big damn deal! You love me!_ “But you do,” Crowley repeated stubbornly.

Aziraphale looked like he might cry. “Crowley, I’m moving on soon, and it won’t be so much of a bother. We’re so close to the end, and we can go back to how we were.” Aziraphale was reasoning with him with an air of urgent resignation. “It won’t be so bad once we only see each other for meals and evenings. It won’t be so difficult for you to ignore. Please just let it lie.” 

“Let it lie? We can’t just let it lie…”

“Damn it, Crowley,” Aziraphale burst out, tears in his eyes. “I know you aren’t cruel, so what are you doing?”

Crowley was beginning to have some inkling of what was going on, but he couldn't quite believe it. “Angel,” he said softly, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“What was there to tell, Crowley?” Aziraphale refused to meet the demon’s eyes, but also refused to release Crowley’s hand. He clasped it gently in his own, lightly stroking the fingers. “I wasn’t going to burden you with feelings you didn’t requite. It was enough to be your friend, and God knows I messed that up often enough…” 

“What the Heaven, angel!” Crowley interrupted urgently. “You sense love! You’ve told me so!” _What does he mean, “feelings I didn’t requite?”_

“I can’t do this, Crowley,” Aziraphale said abruptly, dropping Crowley’s hand and turning towards the bedroom. “I just don’t have it in me. I’ll be gone tomorrow, please leave me be tonight.”

_No way. Not allowed._ Crowley was on the angel before he had taken two steps, spinning him around and pressing him against the wall. He had a moment of blind terror in which he thought that maybe, somehow, he still had the wrong idea, but at this point, his momentum was carrying him forward, and his lips were pressed against the angel’s before he realized he’d finally taken that last terrifying step.

Aziraphale’s lips were soft and trembling. He gasped, and his mouth opened beneath Crowley’s, and suddenly Crowley knew that Aziraphale tasted the way he smelled—like home and comfort and light and every good thing worth following. His lips were moving against Aziraphale’s, and oddly enough there was no awkwardness or hesitation. It was instinctual and easy; it was as easy as it had been to walk up to him on the wall of Eden and start a conversation, despite having been told over and over that an angel wouldn’t hesitate to smite him on sight. _Not my angel. Never my angel._

They finally broke the kiss, but Crowley kept himself pressed against Aziraphale, breathing his air. “Crowley,” Aziraphale exhaled, his fingers somehow under Crowley’s shirt and laced around his back. _When did that happen?_

“Angel, how did you not know?” Crowley rested his forehead against Aziraphale’s. “You sense love.”

“You’ve felt like love since we stood on the wall above the Eastern Gate, in Eden!” Aziraphale looked a little punch-drunk, but also like he’d just watched the sun rise after a _very_ long night. “I just thought… you love this world, Crowley! I assumed…”

“Since Eden,” Crowley agreed breathlessly. “Since you handed that sword to Adam and Eve. And then you lifted your wing to keep me out of the rain. Since Eden. And every day after.” 

“Oh.” Aziraphale looked stupefied. “Oh,” he said again, and he finally looked up into Crowley’s eyes. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“I assumed you knew!” _You wonderful idiot._ “I kissed you, Aziraphale! After the Apocalypse!”

“Well, my dear… I thought that was just a sentiment of us both having survived. I assumed you knew I loved you… Subtlety has never been a particular strength of mine… I thought perhaps you were being kind…” Aziraphale stopped at the look on Crowley’s face. “Oh. I’ve been a bit of a fool, haven’t I?”

“You are a fool. You’re a fool, and you are lovely, and brave, and good, and I love you, I don’t know what would have become of me if I hadn’t met you, fucking Hell, you are not leaving, not tomorrow or ever…” Crowley stopped talking when his mouth suddenly became occupied with Aziraphale’s.

Aziraphale had recently reached the point in his recovery where he had stopped needing quite as much sleep. So later that night (Crowley could no more had said how much later that night than he could have bathed in Holy Water), Crowley had the privilege of falling asleep with his head in Aziraphale’s lap, the angel’s fingers moving gently through Crowley’s hair. 

“Since Eden, dearest?” Aziraphale murmured impossibly softly, clearly not expecting an answer, perhaps thinking Crowley was already asleep.

Crowley rolled so he could turn his smile up towards Aziraphale’s softly-lit face. “Always, angel.”


End file.
